


Hubris

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, M/M, Mythological References, icarus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:56:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Icarus raised his eyes to Apollo who was waiting to be darkened, and the world stopped for a minute, because Icarus had to touch some of the light before it faded away, and maybe if he committed his own hubris, the light would never go dark.</p><p>He no longer needed to be remembered, for he faded holding a hand. The wings of wax had melted, but he could fly without them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hubris

**Author's Note:**

> Written on Barricade Day 2013 for the Abaisse forum. The prompt was Grantaire-brand-miserable.

There are dark days, cold, clouded and unwelcoming. There are fine days, finer than a human being can bear, days when the sun is shining so gently and a soft breeze of air occasionally strokes fair ladies’ locks which have escaped their tight buns and big hats and flirts with the hems of their dresses, bringing the slight touch of blooming roses on pale cheeks. On these days, the coexistence of sun and air, the reconciliation of Phoebus and Aeolus is celebrated.

 

There are some other days when Aeolus is woefully defeated and Phoebus prevails upon the sky. These are the days when no leaf is moved, no lock, no lacy hem. These are the days when the breaths are hectic and drawn with difficulty because it seems like the whole world is burning under the murderous sunrays, the sweat on people’s foreheads resembles the melting of their souls out of the pores of their skins.

 

That day of June was nothing like that. Morning rose and the day proudly proved to be fine, so fine indeed, it was a day of escaping locks and twirling hems because it was a day of peace. A glorious peace between Phoebus and Aeolus.

 

But even in peace, the Gods found immense amusement in mocking the mortals, laughing at them because _they_ shared no such peace equal to their own. The irony of the situation tasted neither sour nor bitter, quite unexpectedly. Because on that exact June day, the irony tasted of gunpowder.

 

And wine.

 

Irony had always tasted of wine for Grantaire, wine was irony because it mocked men. Men got older and faded, when wine got older and bloomed even more. Men could boast about the experience they gained as years went by as much as they wanted, but such conviction only helped to fool themselves in order to greet Death with a sheepish, utterly stupid smile, not realizing that such an attitude made them nothing but brave.

 

Wine never died.

                                                                                

Grantaire knew that every heartbeat brought him closer to the end, yet he did nothing to stop those agonizing heartbeats himself, or try to borrow more. Never in his life had he tried to deny that he was a proper coward. A coward, but never a fool. He would not smile sheepishly, he would not greet Death like an old friend. When Death would come, he would already have drunk himself to sleep to realize. All the pride he had denied during his tiring and miserable life, all that pride he would grant himself with in his final moments, by fooling Death and laughing at his face.

 

For now he could not laugh. He was not drunk enough yet, his friends’ figures were still very clear while they sat on the barricade, cleaning their guns. How would _they_ greet Death? None of them had reached the age of convenient foolishness and sheepish smiles. Grantaire’s eyes fell on Jehan. The poet would be killed in vain like Orpheus, but in the very same manner his head and lyre would never stop singing to eternity. Jean Prouvaire was the less likely of all of them to perish. He looked at Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Hermes and Athena would soon stop breathing, terribly unlike to the Gods they were, yet they would soon be forgotten and the Earth would go on turning.

Courfeyrac had called him wine cask, but Grantaire knew he would never make a proper one, as he had no brand on him, like those made of candle fire on the wood of the barrels. Who was he? He was Grantaire, the capitoul and master of floral games, yet there was no female to confirm that when he’d be gone. He was Emmanuel, yet he hadn’t heard his name been called for years. He grew familiar with the idea that nobody ever asked for it. He was the drunkard, the cynic, yet he knew he was much more than that and much less than that, because he still had a heart, hammering in his ears with every single beat, and that made him deserve so much and so little, being so miserable and so numb.

 

He was R, but who was there to tell him so, since there was no brand on his chest? He felt like a fugitive, always claiming he was free yet a brand made of fire and metal would always be his chains. A brand he was not able to see when he stared at his chest, or shoulders, or wrists. He had no name, he would die knowing he was R but he’d have no name when they’d bury the bloody corpse.

 

The wooden barrel he was sitting on had a brand on it, nothing but a number. 563 0475. A cask full of wine had contributed to the building of that honorable barricade… How ironic.

 

They sang, faintly at first, then their voices became steadier, as they gave strength to each other. Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet, Marius and Feuilly, who drew and wrote on a wall with some chalk. They all sang but he didn’t. Neither did Enjolras.

 

It was but a distasteful joke, that the God of light had been betrayed by the people, and had not yet realized his fate, or even worse, he had realized it and already was reconciled with it.

 

Grantaire brought the bottle on his lips again and drank, a tender smile slowly appearing on his face. In between his misery, it was still a fine June day, and Enjolras was still alive.

 

He asked him to leave, for Grantaire disgraced the barricade, but how could one abandon the light and retreat to the tavern, where his only company would be the wine casks, to remind him of his lack of a brand, a lack of any chance for his name to ever be remembered when he’d fall?

 

The only thing which would be left with a name known to the people and unfaded to time would be those casks, the branded numbers being their identity, thus Grantaire decided to share some of their glory, and by them he slept.

 

His sleep was not to be interrupted by dreams of any kind. He didn’t dream of his sickly mother, who was fond of ribbons, gin and Robespierre. He didn’t dream of his distant father, who was fond of nothing. He didn’t hear his friends’ cries, their swan-like ends, only a few cannonades made him snore; only a couple of explosions caused him to stir.

 

But at some part he dreamt of Apollo, the very Sun who had burnt Icarus wings because Icarus had been foolish.

 

No. Not foolish. Icarus had been wise. That was the only example of a man who died honorably enough for the Apollo he venerated, without being afraid for a moment, rejecting his belief in life and following his belief to Him. That was the only dignified way to die: hubris.

 

Was there a fuller, a prouder way to die than by committing hubris? Showing the exact absence of belief and the very lack of limits, crossing the barriers, challenging the Sun to kill him himself? Was there a more honorable way to die than to have his own wings personally burnt by Apollo?

 

And it is that very fire he desired, these very flames of salvation, any kind of fire, even the burning metal on his chest; such pain would only make him feel alive, the metal on his skin would brand him forever, and even if he faded, he would have left something behind. A capital R. A code. A number. A combination of digits would always remain, bear equal importance to the ironic wooden barrels.

 

And then he was awake and they were lying all around him, Joly and Feuilly and Courfeyrac, covered in blood and gun powder. They wouldn’t breathe again, they wouldn’t speak again, but each and every one of them had greeted Death in his very own way, and for all Grantaire knew, that way most definitely had been graceful.

 

He had been told to go neither near the sea nor near the sun. He had already drowned his thoughts in a sea of alcohol, and the sun had never been more majestic.

 

And Icarus raised his eyes to Apollo who was waiting to be darkened, and the world stopped for a minute, because Icarus had to touch some of the light before it faded away, and maybe if he committed his own hubris, the light would never go dark.

 

But for hubris to be committed properly, in full consciousness, the Sun should be asked for permission. That way, and in that way only, they would embrace sin together and follow each other to salvation.

 

Permission was given, for even Apollo himself could sin, and to forgiveness they could only march together.

 

It had been a fine June day, of those who bring smiles to the foolish faces of the elderly, and flushes to the ignorant faces of the young. Grantaire had been miserable, so much that he had wished he bore a brand, like the ones on the barrels, and on prisoners’ skin, so that he would be certain of the purpose he served the middle of his drunken hallucinations.

 

That he needed no more. He did not need to be remembered, for he faded holding a hand. The wings of wax had melted, but he could fly without them.


End file.
